


Three Months / Thirteen Weeks / Ninety-Two Days

by quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Making Love, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Reunion Sex, Sexting, Sweet/Hot, Teasing, absence makes the heart grow fonder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: It's not easy, having your model-material boyfriend go to Australia while you're stuck in rainy London for three miserable months. Thank God for modern technology (and said boyfriend being both shameless and full of surprises...)
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	Three Months / Thirteen Weeks / Ninety-Two Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IvyYara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyYara/gifts).



> Thanks to @IvyYara for the wonderful prompt (I hope you like what I did with it!), and to @nastally for beta reading! 💖

The tube driver hits the brakes just as John fishes his phone out of his pocket. He stumbles and earns himself a glare from the besuited bloke he elbow-checks as he flails for something to hold on to. “‘pologies,” he mutters, feeling more annoyed at the world in general than apologetic.

Clinging to the handrail as the train picks up speed again, he squints at the screen. His heart picks up a beat when the message symbol next to Roger’s picture lights up. But then he immediately starts to worry - it’s three in the morning in Melbourne, and on a weekday. Praying that there’s no emergency, he opens the message.

`thinking bout you baby ❤️`

Just four short words, but immediately the world looks a little brighter. John can’t help but grin as he replies:

`Shouldn’t you be in bed?  
(thinking about you too. always.)`

`who says I’m not? 😏  
in bed?  
where r u?`

`On my way home  
I mean sleeping. Don’t you have to get up early for work?`

Roger doesn’t respond immediately. John wonders if he’s had a bit too much to drink. Roger always feels this burning need to express his affection (and to shamelessly flirt) whenever he’s tipsy.

At least the fact that Roger is texting him means that he doesn’t have someone else to be affectionate with. Not that John is jealous, or that Roger has given him reason to be suspicious. But it’s not easy, having his model-material boyfriend go to Australia for three months, while he’s stuck in London teaching undergrads the basics of robotics. Also, he’s seen pictures of Roger’s lab team. Half of them look like semi-professional rock-climbers or surfers, all tanned and sinewy. Bloody Australians.

Meanwhile, John hasn’t seen the sun in what feels like months. Perhaps he should consider a trip to the tanning bed before Roger returns next week. And to the gym. He has been slacking off on that. And he has _got_ to do something about his hair. He runs a hand through the strands creeping over his collar. There’s really no way that-

The phone vibrates again, and John eagerly holds it up to his face. The photo that fills the screen takes his breath away. It’s a close up of Roger’s face. He must be lying on his back, with his hair sticking out around him like a halo. His open, happy smile and the slightly blurred quality of the pic make him look extra soft. And that’s not even to mention the golden glow of his sun-kissed skin and the deep blue of his eyes.

John is so distracted that he only belatedly realises the guy next to him is ogling his boyfriend. With a huffed “Do you mind?” John angles the phone away from him and retreats further into a corner. The nerve of some people.

When he looks at the screen again, another picture has popped up. An unbuttoned shirt exposing Roger’s chest and belly, and just the top of his low riding jeans. John’s mouth goes dry.

`On the tube!!!`

`whn u getting home ^^`

He’ll get off at the next station. Then a fifteen-minute walk (he never bothers waiting for the bus unless the rain is dredging down) that he can do in twelve if he’s in a hurry. And he _will_ be in a hurry.

`14`

`too long`

He almost manages not to look at the screen when the next message comes in. Because he knows it’s going to be trouble. But he is exhausted after a long day of trying and failing to repair the lidar-unit on their most advanced model, which for some inexplicable reason keeps malfunctioning, so he’s not at his most resilient right now.

In the next pic, the fly of Roger’s jeans is open, and he’s trailing his fingers over the bulge in his red boxer briefs. John’s cock gives an answering twitch, just as the tube carriage jolts to a halt.

Right. Home first. Sexting second.

`Dont u dare start wo me  
be home in 12`

The phone vibrates again just as John is putting it away. With his last reserve of willpower, he slips it into his pocket without looking and jogs up the stairs of the station. Roger loves teasing him. And while he doesn’t mind a little teasing, right now he just needs to get home as quickly as possible and without embarrassing himself. He’s already grateful for his long jacket which can cover a multitude of sins.

His phone vibrates again.

And again.

The thing is that not looking at what Roger sent is probably worse than the reality of it, because John can’t stop imagining what it might be. Has he taken his cock out yet? Is he stroking himself? Playing with his nipples? Or perhaps lubing up a plug?

He almost falls flat on his face as his foot catches on the edge of the kerb. He’s half-walking, half-running, propelled forward by the colour-wheel of images playing in his mind, one more graphic than the next.

God, it’s time for Roger to return home already. Three months (that’s thirteen weeks, or ninety-two days, to be precise) without anything but his own hand touching him is driving him insane.

Again, his phone vibrates in his pocket. And this time it doesn’t stop.

He knows it’s a stupid idea even as he swipes over the green “accept” button. But he is weak, and it feels like it’s been ages since he last heard Roger’s voice.

And he’ll be home soon.

“Are you ignoring me?”

Oh God, Roger already sounds breathless. His husky voice alone is enough to send John’s mind completely into the gutter. He can see the slight pout on his lips so clearly. Oh, how he wishes he could kiss it off! “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Have you seen my pics then? Did you like them?”

“Yes,” John fibs. He will study them in depth once he’s home, and he is guaranteed to like them, so it’s not much of a lie. “Liked them a bit too much, to be honest.”

Roger huffs out a satisfied little laugh. “And that in public. My dear, proper John, how naughty.” He tuts. “How long until you get home now?”

“About four-” Just as John is only two steps away from the crossing, the pedestrian light turns red. He curses under his breath. “ _Five_ minutes.”

“I really don’t know if I can wait that long,” Roger whines.

Dammit, John can practically see him stretched out on his bed, naked and already hard, tracing his fingertips over his skin. “Behave,” he growls.

“Can’t wait to see you,” Roger rasps, followed by a small moan that has all the blood in John’s body rushing south. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here.”

John looks around, desperately hoping that the dozen or so people waiting alongside him are too busy with their own thoughts to notice his bright red face. “Can’t,” he whispers. “Too many people.”

“Pity.” There’s a wet sound, as if Roger had licked his lips or - Lord have mercy - his fingers. “How about I tell you what _I’m_ doing then?”

“Rog, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” The traffic light turns green and John dashes forwards like a thoroughbred out of the starting box.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”

Oh, he really, really shouldn’t. He should hang up, head home, set up a video call and do this properly. Instead, he presses the phone closer to his burning ear.

“I’m on this big bed that feels awfully empty without you. Running my hands all over my body, imagining they’re yours. You know that thing you do, when you flick your tongue over my nipples until I lose my fucking mind? I can’t do that by myself, but I’m rubbing them with my wet fingertip and it feels almost as good. And the more I think about you, the better it feels. Are you still there?”

“‘m here,” John mumbles. God, his cock is straining so hard in his trousers he’s glad for the sturdy denim fabric. He remembers what Roger is like when he does this, whimpering and cursing and writhing all over the bed.

“Hmm, I love your voice. How long until you get home?”

John is jogging now. “Two minutes, love.”

“I’m really trying not to touch my cock, but it’s hard.” He huffs out a laugh. “I mean it’s difficult. But it’s true. I’m so hard it’s fucking aching. Aching for your touch.”

“Roger, _please_...” Please go on? Please stop? It’s sweet agony, limping along with his erection trapped in his trousers, unable to do anything about it.

“I try to get myself off with my fingers inside me sometimes. But it’s just not the same.”

“Are you doing that now,” John asks, sweat trickling down his neck.

“Not yet. Just teasing with my fingertip. Not pushing it in, promise.” This is followed by a long, sensual groan that almost sends John face-first into a lamp post. “Waiting for you.”

Oh, fuck it. John breaks out into a full on sprint. He can already see the house at the end of the street. “Almost there,” he pants.

God, he can’t wait to see Roger naked and spread out on the bed, even if it’s just on a screen. He slaloms around bikes and pedestrians while Roger keeps whispering filthy promises in his ear, interrupted only by those breathy low moans that make John’s head spin. “I wanna touch myself so badly. Hmm, fuck, my cock is so hard and wet, just from thinking about you.”

John drops his keys twice as he tries to get the front door open with trembling hands, and then he has to wait until one of their neighbours has manoeuvred his bike down the last flight of stairs (Andrew is a nice guy, actually, but right now, he is in imminent danger of being murdered for his innocent attempts at small talk). But then - _finally_ \- he is running up the staircase towards their flat.

“Hurry, baby,” Roger whines, his tone so plaintive and needy that John has the impulse to just crash right through the door of their flat in his haste to get the video link set up. The only thing stopping him is the realisation that in that case, he’d have no privacy for what he’s planning next. Also, realistically, he’s more likely to dislocate his shoulder than actually break down the sturdy door. But thoughts like that take a back seat when your boyfriend is moaning obscene things right into your reptile brain.

When he’s finally inside the flat, he slams the door closed behind him and sheds his coat and toes off his shoes as he runs along the hallway towards the bedroom, not willing to wait even a second longer than necessary. He must have forgotten to switch off the light before he left that morning, because a warm glow is spilling out into the hallway from behind the half-closed door.

“‘m here,” he wheezes, breathless from both the run and his arousal. “I’ll hang up and call you back via video, alright, love? Won’t take a minute.”

“I’m here too,” Roger says, except now his voice comes in stereo.

John holds the phone in front of his face and frowns at the screen. “Rog?”

“Right here, baby.”

The voice is coming right from the bedroom.

John’s already erratic heartbeat is about to spiral out of control. Is he going insane? Is his mind - driven mad from lust and longing - playing tricks on him?

Slowly, he steps closer to the open door, the wing blocking his view of what’s inside. He wants nothing more than for it to be true - but it’s impossible, isn’t it? Roger’s contract runs until the end of the month, and they wouldn’t just let him go almost a week early. Would they?

He mentally prepares himself for the inevitable - a cold, empty bedroom where he merely forgot to switch off the lights that morning - and pushes the door open.

“Took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

John’s knees go week. “Roger,” he breathes.

His boyfriend is sitting against the top of the bed, phone in his hand, still in his boxer briefs and a t-shirt and is trying to glare at him, but completely failing because he can’t keep his grin off his face.

John stumbles forward, towards the bed, and crumbles down gracelessly on top of his boyfriend. Roger’s arms come up around him, pulling him in tight, and John buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smells so good, so _real_ , he wants to cry. God, how he missed this. His voice, his scent, his warmth, his sheer presence. “What on earth are you doing here,” he whispers.

“Finished the project early,” Roger says, pressing a kiss into John’s hair. “Skipped the farewell party and got on the next cheap flight home.”

“God, I missed you. I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

“I do, believe me. I do.”

He draws back and looks up at Roger, who’s wearing the soppiest smile on his face, the kind of expression he usually likes to keep hidden behind quick jokes and an unflappable facade. There’ll be a time to admire his golden tan and to count every new freckle and to get the full story on his early departure. That time is not now.

John leans in, capturing Roger’s lips in a kiss that goes from romantic to searing in all of ten seconds. Roger’s hands grasp at his back, fingers digging into his shirt. John licks into his mouth, desperate for that taste he hasn’t had for three months (twelve weeks, ninety-two days). He slides his hands into Roger’s hair, angling his head to give him better access. Roger groans into his mouth and catches John’s leg with his foot, drawing him closer.

John gasps when his cock comes into contact with Roger’s thigh. He’s been so overwhelmed by his presence (Here! In their bedroom! Right now!) that he’s almost forgotten about it, but now his arousal comes roaring back. His hands slide down to reach beneath Roger’s shirt, but then the fact that Roger is, in fact, still wearing a shirt catches up with him.

“You’re still dressed,” he mumbles against Roger’s lips. “Was that all an act then?” He nods at their phones that have ended up on the bedside table.

John can feel Roger’s mouth pull into a grin. “Not all of it,” he whispers and pushes his erection into John’s hip. “Wanted to let you do the honours.”

“With pleasure.” With all the grace he can muster, John pulls Roger’s shirt off and flings it carelessly aside. And then, all that is important is that he gets his boyfriend’s cock in his mouth as quickly as possible. He slides down the length of Roger’s body, not stopping until his face is pressed into the bulge that is tenting his pants.

“Jesus Christ _fuck_ ,” Roger curses and the good little Catholic boy inside John bristles and roars at the same time.

“Language,” he chides even as he presses the tip of his tongue to the wet patch that has already formed, making it even wetter.

“Bloody buggering hell,” Roger groans and puts a hand on the back of John’s neck, pulling him in.

There are times when he likes to tease and draw it out, but not today. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of the pants and pulls them off, then - as soon as he’s within reach - wraps his lips around the head of Roger’s cock. He moans at the familiar taste, at the thickness filling his mouth.

“John,” Roger gasps as his fingers dig into John’s shoulders.

As John swirls his tongue over Roger’s cock, he revels in every reaction he draws out of his boyfriend - every whine, every arch of his back, every drop of precome welling up. With every second, he rediscovers another thing he loves about this.

Roger’s fingers dig in a bit harder. “‘m gonna come if you go on like that.”

“Alright.” John fails to see the problem. He licks at the slit, eager for the drops welling up, eager for more.

“Don’t - oh _fuck_ \- don’t want this to be over so soon.”

John only pulls off for as long as he has to in order to answer, “We can always go for another round.” Or two.

Roger laughs. “I’m running on caffeine and horniness. Once I come, I’ll fall into a coma just like this.” He snaps his fingers.

John feels like an idiot. He’s completely forgotten about the fact that Roger has been travelling for over a day. And that it’s around four in the morning for him. “Sorry,” he murmurs, hesitating to dive right back in.

Because while he should take care of his boyfriend, there’s also _so much_ he wants to do.

He wants to taste Roger’s come in his mouth, feel his fingers tighten in his hair as pleasure overtakes him. He wants to feel Roger’s clever tongue on his cock, and his hands, and he wants to fuck him into the next century and then ride him until his legs give out. He wants to watch Roger as he gets himself off, observe every ripple of ecstasy on his face, and he wants to rub their cocks together, so he can feel every last twitch and pulse as he comes. He wants to reach under the bed and get out their box of toys and use every single one of them until Roger is sobbing his name into the bedspread. And he wants to do all of that right now.

It’s paralysing, like standing in front of a sumptuous buffet with all his favourite foods and being told he can only have one of them.

“Oh, I’m not sure I can forgive you for sucking my cock so well you almost made me come in under two minutes,” Roger drawls.

When John looks up at him, Roger is grinning.

“How about I slow down,” John suggests and gives Roger’s length a slow lick from root to tip. “Draw it out.”

The grin is wiped off Roger’s face. “Oh, you bastard.”

“Just wanna make you feel good, love,” John murmurs, making sure Roger can feel the movement of his lips. “Welcome you home.” He doesn’t add the ‘Where you belong’ that he is thinking, because that sort of thing irritates Roger.

“Hngh, that sounds good,” Roger sighs, sinking back into the pillow. “Really good. But.”

John pauses where he is fluttering his tongue against Roger’s balls. “But what?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

John’s eyes flutter shut, and he can’t hold in an involuntary groan.

“Would you like that too?” Roger’s voice is high and reedy, but still John can hear the smugness in it. “Been dreaming about it all the time during my flight. I got so turned on I’m glad I didn’t wake up humping that pensioner next to me.”

“Ugh, shut up.” John grimaces at the mental image.

“Oh, but I thought you like it when I talk.”

Roger is being way too smug and coherent, so John dives in and takes him down to the root, pinning his hips down with one arm to keep him from thrashing. He’s a bit out of practice, but he manages to swallow two times around him before Roger pulls him off by yanking at his hair none-too-gently.

“For fuck’s sake, John-”

“Pass me the lube,” John says before Roger has time to recover. After some frantic rummaging in the bedside drawer, the tube lands on the bed next to his hand. He fumbles with the cap like a bloody amateur, dropping it twice, and hopes that Roger is too turned on to notice. Then he places his hands under Roger’s knees and pushes at them, until his feet are flat on the mattress.

He makes sure to warm the gel up between his fingers for a moment, and takes Roger’s cock back in his mouth before he rubs his thumb against the rim. Roger moans and arches up underneath him, and John drinks it up. He loves how responsive his boyfriend is, how he never holds back. He takes a moment to look up at Roger, laid out naked on their bed. _Home_. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs in between swirls of his tongue. “So lovely for me.”

He massages the outside with his fingers for a while, loosening up the tight muscle. It’s wonderful, to take his time with this, to dawdle a bit and wallow in the intoxicating noises that Roger makes. But then, just as he is wriggling in the tip of one finger past the tight ring of muscle, Roger harshly orders him to stop and pulls away.

John withdraws and lets Roger’s cock slip from his mouth. “Too fast?” Roger can usually take his fingers much more quickly, especially when he’s already so turned on. But perhaps he’s out of practice too.

“Too _fast_?” Roger groans. “I don’t. Want. To come. Yet,” he grits out. “Seriously, John, keep your mouth away from my dick or this will be over faster than it started.”

And John tries, he really does, but Roger’s cock is so wet and pretty and right there… how could he resist? He barely gets to the second finger before Roger grabs the base of his cock with a choked off moan and bats John away none too gently.

“You’re impossible,” his boyfriend complains, panting. “No self-control whatsoever.”

John wants to make a pointed comment about him not being the one having trouble staving off his orgasm (but then, he hasn’t even touched his cock yet, so it might be an unfair comparison), but then Roger is rolling onto his front, legs slightly spread, and all coherent thought departs his brain.

God, he’s missed that sight. Roger’s slim, lightly muscled back, his newly-tanned skin and sweet, pert bum, all laid out for him.

“John, for the love of all that is holy, will you _please_ get a move on,” Roger hisses at him over his shoulder.

“Sorry, love,” John murmurs, but can’t resist rubbing a hand all the way from his thighs, over the swell of his arse and up to his shoulders and then back down again, marvelling at all that smooth skin he finally gets to touch again.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roger gripes, “what do I have to do to get fucked around here, get on my knees and beg?”

Now that definitely gets John moving. That’s not for tonight, but the mental image alone makes his dick strain in his jeans, reminding him that he’d like to get off soon, too. He presses a kiss to the base of Roger’s spine and slides his fingers between his buttocks. He goes a bit faster now, working in a second finger soon after the first.

Roger makes small, shifting movements with his hips against the mattress, as if he can’t help rubbing up against it. He’s resting his forehead on his arms and the muscles in his shoulders tense and relax in time with John’s fingers moving inside him. It’s such a beautiful sight John can hardly look away.

When John adds a third finger, Roger sucks in a harsh breath, holding it. “Alright?” John asks, and rubs the palm of his free hand soothingly over Roger’s back.

“Yeah, just… not used to it any more.”

“I thought you, er, practised on your own?” No, that’s not the right way to put it. John _knows_ for a fact that Roger did that. He saw it live-streamed on what he really hopes was a secure video server one memorable night.

“Not the same,” Roger replies, breathing out slowly. “Gotta go easy on me tonight, baby.”

Something inside John goes all soft and melty at this. “Of course,” he murmurs and drops a kiss to Roger’s back. “We don’t have to more than this.”

Roger shakes his head. “No, I want to.” He turns his head to the side so his cheek is resting on his arm and he can look at John over his shoulder. “I want to feel you inside me.”

And now it’s John who has to bite his lips and think of unwashed socks and papers he’s got to grade in order to keep his arousal in check. He’s almost forgotten how Roger can reduce him to a mess with a single sentence, one heated glance. He pushes his fingers in as far as they will go, spreading them a little while avoiding Roger’s prostate. Roger’s eyes flutter closed and he moans into the crook of his arm. John can see his hairline has turned dark with sweat.

He spends a few more minutes like this, carefully opening his boyfriend up, spending even more time and care on it than he usually would. Just when his wrist is getting a little sore, Roger taps the mattress.

“Now,” he says. “Want you now.”

John carefully retrieves his fingers, wiping them on the sheets. “On your back?” he asks, sitting back to give Roger the space to roll back over.

Roger shakes his head and shifts half onto his side instead, the top leg slightly bent. “Like this?” he suggests.

“Yeah.” It’s a brilliant idea - the position is close and intimate and not too taxing. It’s also the way they did it when they made love the very first time.

John is so eager to slot his body against Roger, to hold him in his arms and sink into his heat, that he’s already halfway to lying down when he realises that he’s still fully dressed. Cursing under his breath, cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal, he clambers back onto his knees and sheds his clothes as fast as humanly possible.

Roger send him an amused glance over his shoulder. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I’m excellent at this,” John assures him, while he tries not to strangle himself with his t-shirt, which suddenly seems to have grown a few sizes too small. When he’s finally naked, he crawls over Roger, catching his mouth in a deep, lazy kiss.

A thought crosses his mind, one he doesn’t want to think, but can’t suppress once it’s there. He draws back slightly. “Should I use a condom,” he asks, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. It’s not meant as an accusation, and he wants Roger to be able to answer honestly.

“Not from my side,” Roger says, with a rising inflection that contains the same question.

“Same,” John murmurs, relief flooding through him. He didn’t think so, not really. But better ask than be sorry. Roger takes his hand and squeezes it for a moment, and then John just has to kiss him again, getting a bit lost in the heat of his mouth and the slide of his tongue, until Roger physically shoves him away.

“Will you get on with it,” he growls, although he can’t keep a fond grin off his face.

John settles behind him and reaches for the lube. He hisses when the cold gel comes into contact with his skin, his cock over-sensitive from having been neglected for so long. He nudges Roger’s knee a bit further up with his own and checks one last time that he is open enough for this, studiously ignoring his boyfriend’s impatient huffs. Finally, he presses the tip of his cock against Roger’s hole and slowly starts pushing in.

As soon as the tip is in contact with that tight heat, holding back becomes an ordeal. He wants to be engulfed in it, right now, every inch of him. He presses his lips against Roger’s sweat-soaked neck instead, listening to his laboured breathing. After a few seconds of stillness, Roger relaxes fractionally and before John can react, the entire head has slipped inside, forcing a ragged gasp out of his boyfriend.

“Are you okay?” John puts one hand on Roger’s hip, to hold them both steady.

“Hmm,” Roger moans. “Sometimes I forget how big you are.” He huffs out a breathless laugh. “How the hell could I forget.”

“We can stop,” John reminds him. Although it’s the last thing he wants, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“No.” Roger shakes his head. “More. Come on. I won’t break.”

John pushes in slowly, incrementally, enjoying every bit of it. The noises he’s drawing out of Roger, the closeness of the position, the tightness surrounding him. He is plastered so close to Roger’s back that he can feel every one of his hitched breaths. “Never letting you go again,” he whispers, tightening the grip of the arm he’s got wrapped around Roger’s chest. It’s the kind of nonsense thing he’s allowed to say when they’re like this - impossible and hopelessly romantic and still true on some level he doesn’t completely understand. John pulls Roger as close to himself as possible, curling his body around him as he sinks deeper inside, like he’s trying to convince himself with all of his senses that he’s truly back.

And then Roger pushes his hips back against him and the friction feels so good that John can’t help a small thrust. “Fuck, yes,” Roger groans. He reaches for John’s hip and digs in his fingers, wordlessly urging him to give him more of that. John starts up a rhythm, gentle at first, but quickly picking up intensity. Roger’s request to go easy on him is always on his mind, even as his body is screaming for more. But this is not the time for hard and fast.

Roger lets go of his hip and shifts a little more onto his stomach. The next time John pushes in, the changed angle has Roger crying out, his fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly. “Don’t stop, baby,” he pants before John can ask if he’s okay. “Please, don’t stop.”

He allows himself to let go, to fall into a deep, slow pulsing beat. Pleasure builds low in his belly, a twisting build-up of tension that makes him groan and gasp. Roger is arching underneath him, moving with him. His high-pitched, cut-off sobs send sparks flying from the overheated circuits of John’s brain, and he reaches out to cover Roger’s hand with his, interlacing their fingers and pressing it into the mattress. They’re so close in this position he feels like he’s drowning in Roger. He kisses the back of his neck, his shoulders, his hair, anything he can reach.

The tension inside him is winding tighter and tighter, and he knows he’s nearing the edge. He should try to reach for Roger’s cock, but then he’d have to change their position a little and it just feels so wonderful. Just a bit longer like this, he promises himself. Just a few more seconds of this self-indulgent pleasure.

“I’m so close,” Roger slurs, his voice thick with arousal. “God, you’re fucking killing me.”

John tries to pull them back onto their sides, so he can touch Roger, but his boyfriend refuses to cooperate. There’s a bit of a struggle and confusion until Roger lifts his head and looks at John over his shoulder. He’s a mess: eyes wide and dazed, cheeks feverish and his lips bitten red. “Wanna feel you come inside me, baby,” he rasps, and the words alone are almost enough for John to fulfil his wish on the spot.

“But… you…” John stammers.

“Ah-ah, no arguing.” Roger frees his hand and reaches for the back of John’s neck, pulling him into a sloppy, messy kiss. “Let me feel you,” he whispers just as he grinds back hard. When John responds with a sharp thrust, Roger chuckles and lays his head back down. “Yeah, like that. Oh fuck, just like that.”

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of Roger moving underneath him, and his voice egging him on, telling him how much he wants it. John can feel his own movement become ragged and jerky as everything inside him pulls together impossibly tight. It’s too late to hold back, so he rides the wave of bliss as long as he can, shuddering and groaning with sweet release.

“Let me make you feel good, love,” he whispers before he’s fully regained consciousness again, numb hands pawing uselessly at Roger. “Tell me what, anything, I’d do…”

“Hush.” Fingers press against his lips, stopping the words bubbling out of him. This time it’s Roger who pushes them onto their sides, a hand on John’s hip to keep him from pulling out. “Just hold me.”

And then John wraps his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he can without squashing him, as Roger gets himself off with three or four efficient strokes. He can sense every tremor that goes through his boyfriend as he comes under an endless litany of curses mixed with John’s name.

Roger growls a little when John finally pulls out of him, and the sound makes John’s heart overflow with fondness. How he’s missed all this. Not just the sex, but those little things. The tickle of Roger’s hair against his nose, and his smell clinging to the sheets and his warmth and that cute little snore that always arises for the first five minutes after he’s fallen asl-

“Roger?”

When there’s no response, John props himself up on his elbow and leans over to look at Roger’s face. Sleeping like an angel (who’s got a bit of a snore). Just as he had predicted.

Oh, well. Roger will gripe about the mess when he wakes up, but John doesn’t have it in him to wake him now for a clean-up.

Speaking of which. John should really use this opportunity to tidy up a bit. The flat has become quite a mess. He meant to see to that before Roger came home, of course. And he should get some food in as well, as the state of the fridge is a bit pathetic. He meant to see to that, too.

But then, all he does after he’s drawn up the duvet around Roger, is lie next to him, running a hand over his messy hair.

Welcome home.


End file.
